Only Then
by TheMaywat
Summary: This is a story about a young man and his Angel of Music, and how this mysterious and irrefutable Angel forever changed his life. Rated M for violence and sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Well, obviously this is a Glee/Phantom crossover. I just had an idea and went with it. And while this introductory chapter closely mirrors the beginning of The Phantom of the Opera musical, the rest of the story will not. Sebastian and Blaine will both feature heavily in this story along with Kurt. The title of this fic comes from the song "The Music of the Night." [remove spaces for video link~ youtu . be/FUPmaZifKzg]

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_, _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_, _Phantom of the Opera_, or _Love Never Dies_. I'm just a fan.

* * *

_"No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad and disheartened. Then their ears suddenly perceive celestial harmonies, a divine voice, which they remember all their lives."_

- Gaston Leroux's _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_, page 40

* * *

"Just look at them, Kurt," little Rachel whispered into her friend's ear. "They are so strange!"

She and Kurt were standing among the other members of the corps de ballet, all of them murmuring under their breaths about the two castrati who had walked onto the stage with the rest of the principal cast of _Mitridate, re di Ponto_. The men in question looked down their noses at the various people scattered across the stage, outwardly scorning yet inwardly preening at the attention. Their unusually long arms were drawn behind them with their delicate hands clasped at the smalls of their backs. Their puffed out chests beneath intricately embroidered coats only added to the look of haughtiness.

"Strange, how?" Kurt whispered back. "I think they're fascinating. Look at how spindly their legs are! And have you heard them sing?"

"You can sing better," Rachel proclaimed confidently, inviting no argument.

Kurt gave his friend a small smile. "Well, now that has yet to be proven."

"Oh, no, you can definitely sing better than them. Higher and better," Rachel insisted. "And _you've_ still got all your boy parts."

Kurt smacked her in the arm, his face the picture of incredulity as Rachel fell into giggles. "You're terrible, Rachel Berry! I cannot believe you said that! Oh god, what if they heard you?" He looked around hoping no one caught the girl's comment, his face flushed red in embarrassment. The only looks they received, however, were curious glances from the ensemble at the sound of Rachel's laughter. The singers were busy speaking with the maestro and hadn't noticed anything was amiss.

"I feel bad for them, really," Rachel continued as if Kurt hadn't responded, tilting her head as she observed the _primo uomo_. "As angelic as they sound, they truly are quite grotesque."

Kurt frowned at her. "How do you mean?" he asked. "How are they grotesque?"

"They're misshapen! Look at them, Kurt, they look... disproportionate. Like something one might happen upon at a traveling show or a carnival. Not to mention, they don't have any b—"

"—Rachel!"

"Which probably means they have underdeveloped p—"

"—_Rachel!_"

"Well, it's true! I heard that's what happens when boys are castrated before they've grown into men," little Rachel persisted, though she lost some of her playfulness at Kurt's stern expression. "Truly, don't you think that's grotesque?"

"Grotesque it may be, but it is also not their fault," Kurt replied firmly. "I doubt they chose to be this way."

"You doubt they chose to trade their bodies to possess the voices of angels?"

"I doubt they chose to give up their futures, their dreams of children, their capacity for amorous feeling, and any options they might have had to do anything else with their lives, all for the smallest chance that they might be heard and adored."

Rachel looked surprised. She hadn't thought about it like that, hadn't really considered the men before her as being anything more than mere human oddities. Such extensive thought made her uncomfortable.

She pursed her lips at Kurt, somewhat put out that he didn't join in her tattle and had instead tried to end it. "Well, anyway," she said after a time. "You sing just as well as they do, if not better, and you didn't have to have your balls cut off to do so."

Kurt just covered his face with his hands, deciding it was no use trying to stop his friend's gabbing, no matter how inappropriate and inconsiderate. Rachel was a determined sort, after all.

"I bet you would've been famous if you'd lived in Italy," she was saying, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of fame. "Your range is quite the commodity over there, I hear. Maybe we could move there? Oh, let's move there, Kurt! I'm sure _my_ talents would definitely be more appreciated in that country, anyway, and you would become a _primo uomo_ in a second, I just know it!"

"Castrati—and therefore, countertenors—are going out of fashion, Rachel, even in Italy. I honestly don't think moving there would bring me anything, so please stop talking. And anyhow, dreams can wait," he said stiffly. "Because right now your mother is glaring at us."

Rachel snapped her head around, trying to spot her mother, and sure enough, Madame Corcoran was indeed glaring at them from stage right. But before they could collect themselves properly so as to amend their moment of misbehavior, she was in front of them, banging her wooden staff loudly (and needlessly) on the stage floor to ensure she had their attention.

"Rachel Berry!" she called in an authoritative and reprimanding tone. "Are you a dancer?"

The rest of the corps de ballet had gone quiet at the first sign of movement from the dance instructor and were now watching the scene with rapt attention, albeit whilst pretending to be absorbed in their own individual rehearsals.

Mme. Corcoran waited for her daughter's reply.

"Yes, madame," Rachel responded with all the confidence and ease of an oft-scolded child. Which, of course, she was.

"If you are a dancer, then why, pray tell, were you talking instead of practicing the ballet with the others?"

Rachel stuck her chin out at her mother. "But Kurt wasn't practicing either!"

"Don't drag me into this!" Kurt hissed under his breath at his friend.

"Kurt is not a part of the corps de ballet, Rachel, need I remind you?" the dance instructor said. "He is a chorus boy; you are a dancer. The maestro has no need of him at the moment, and so he avails himself and awaits instruction. You, however, know that you need to practice. Your ankles aren't as steady as they should be, and you move ahead of the other dancers too often. You should have been rehearsing to correct all this instead of gossiping. Now," she banged her staff once more with finality. "Practice!"

"Yes, madame," came Rachel's automatic response, though she muttered some heated words to herself as she rejoined her fellow dancers, leaving Kurt standing alone with the older woman. He wasn't sure what he should do with himself now that his friend was gone. Should he remain where he was, or should he go find something productive to do? Luckily, Mme. Corcoran saved him from making a decision.

"I've been told your singing lessons are going quite well," she said, breaking the short period of silence and offering Kurt a knowing smile.

He frowned at her, his eyes widening slightly. Of all the things he expected she might say, that was not one of them. "How did you...?"

He didn't think anyone else knew about his mysterious tutor. He himself didn't even know much about his tutor, beyond the voice in the dark. That beautiful, sweet voice.

"He speaks of you often," she continued. "And fondly. He is quite pleased with your progress, my dear."

Kurt didn't know what to say. This woman knew his teacher. _She knew the man to whom that voice belonged._

He wondered why she hadn't said anything before. He never spoke of his lessons to anyone, as the voice, the Angel of Music, had explicitly requested. Who would believe him, anyhow? Who would hear his story of a disembodied voice arriving in his dressing room every evening for the past three months and not think him mad? Kurt wasn't a fool. But Mme. Corcoran knew. And she knew without him telling.

"He - he speaks to you, too?" he asked breathlessly. He could hardly believe it.

"Yes," his friend's mother replied matter-of-factly. "He speaks to me every show night in Box Five, which I alone manage and which is reserved only for him. He'll ask after my dear Rachel, noting how well she's doing and how far he thinks she'll go as a dancer," she paused. "And he'll talk of you. His 'angel,' as he calls you. Sometimes he'll leave me a tip—not much, just a few francs—or some of those English candies that he loves so much, just for watching his box and delivering any messages he might have for Messieurs Debienne and Poligny. He is always so very gracious."

"The managers know of him, as well?"

"Oh, yes," Mme. Corcoran said, smiling as if she'd just thought of something particularly witty. "Yes, they know of the Opera Ghost."

Kurt's mind was reeling, both with excitement and confusion. "Ghost?" he echoed curiously. "How can he be a ghost and yet bring you money and candy? Surely, he has a body, is a real person, and you've seen him?"

"If he does have a physical form, I have not seen it."

This all seemed very odd to Kurt, though he did not say as much. Before now, he knew next to nothing about his teacher, content simply to have that voice fill his mind and his soul, to have it inspire his song. The voice had never been anything more than his Angel of Music, the angel his father had promised to send down to him from heaven. And suddenly, he was being told that the voice was in fact a ghost, the Opera Ghost, whom others could also hear and who had his own private box in the opera house, a ghost who enjoyed English sweets and who presumed to have memos sent to the managers.

And yet, Kurt thought with newfound skepticism, in all this he remained only a voice. He couldn't understand how that was possible. If his Angel had no body, how could he eat candy? If he were a ghost, why would he need a seat from which to view performances?

Kurt was just about to inquire further when everyone was called to attention.

"Silence, everyone!" shouted the maestro with a mixture of urgency and annoyance. "If I could have the ensemble's cooperation for just a moment—or several," he muttered the last part to himself, "Signore Matteo would like to rehearse his aria from Act 2 and insists that you all remain quiet for the duration of the song." The man detested the sense of entitlement his star performers always seemed to have; however, he never let such feelings keep him from doing his job.

"Grazie," Matteo said as the maestro gestured harshly at the strings and horns, who eventually, after a moment of fumbling with their sheet music, began the harried introduction to _"Lungi da te, mio bene."_ The countertenor did not bother acknowledging their nerves, but instead just waited for his cue to start singing.

When he finally did begin to sing, the room quieted even further. There was no disputing the singer's talent, although Kurt had to admit that there was much that could be said about his attitude. The self-satisfied smirk on the signore's face made it hard to enjoy what would otherwise be a lovely performance.

Then suddenly, as the castrato's voice flowed toward the end of his third bar of song, the loud snap of a rope recoiling could be heard from the rafters above, and in the next moment the royal blue tapestry overhead, along with the beam that held it, plummeted to the stage floor, crashing a mere foot behind Signore Matteo, who let out a startled and terrified scream in his highest register. It took a moment for everyone else to realize just what had happened, as most of the ensemble had not been paying visual attention to the performance.

Chaos and confusion overtook everybody for the longest of minutes, only subsiding when Mme. Corcoran called for order after her dear little Rachel loudly proclaimed that it must be the work of the Opera Ghost, for the stage hand had not been at his post, and therefore, could not have been the cause of the fallen drapery.

Speculation ensued for a time, but once order was finally and completely had, the singer and his fellow castrato promptly stormed off the stage with a few choice words, taking personal offense to the incident—and perhaps rightly so.

In the relative silence that followed, Kurt could have sworn he heard a man laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Angel of Music, hide no longer. Come to me, strange angel."_

- _The Phantom of the Opera_, "Little Lotte/The Mirror" [remove spaces for video link~ youtu . be/fwA_fGt28j8]

* * *

The applause was deafening. Kurt could hardly hear the beating of his own heart over the noise, though his pulse was thumping loudly in his ears. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. He completed his first ever performance as a lead with the opera house and was now receiving a standing ovation at curtain call.

If only his father could see him now.

As it was, his audience in that moment was not short on admirers. In fact, it was far from it. Two admirers in particular were watching him quite attentively from their seats in separate, reserved boxes—one with pleasant surprise and reawakened desire, the other with fierce pride and deep longing.

Kurt soaked up the praise like a flower soaks up sunlight, basking in it and growing stronger from its intensity. Before the crowd that evening, he felt powerful. He was important. He mattered. He felt like he could do anything.

"I told you so," little Rachel nudged him with her elbow once they were finally backstage. "Didn't I tell you so?"

Kurt rolled his eyes good-naturedly at his friend. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Mhm," Rachel responded disbelievingly, an amused smirk painted across her face. "Keep telling yourself that, if you like, sweetie. But that doesn't change the fact that this," she made a sweeping gesture encompassing everything around them, "was all my doing, and _you're welcome_."

All Kurt could do was chuckle.

Rachel planted a quick kiss on his cheek before turning on her heel and flouncing away towards the scolding voice of her mother. "One day, you'll appreciate me, Kurt Hummel!" she exclaimed dramatically over her shoulder as she disappeared around a corner at the end of the walkway where the other dancers were congregated, suffering through a lengthy speech from Madame Corcoran about their poor performance in the night's show.

Kurt smiled and shook his head at his friend's antics. If he was honest, he didn't know what he would do without her. Everything she claimed was true; he knew it was. Kurt never would have volunteered himself for the role of Sifare after El Matteo stormed out of rehearsal if Rachel hadn't, quite literally, pushed him into it. _"Kurt Hummel could sing it!"_ she had all but shouted at the startled maestro, as she'd frog-marched Kurt to center stage that day.

For all her faults, Rachel was quite tenacious and extremely loyal to him. He was, after all, her closest friend. Though, Kurt supposed, he might very well be her only friend.

The boy eventually made his way to his dressing room, greeting and accepting praise from the people he passed along the way. It was something he wasn't yet used to but found that he quite liked. Then again, what person wouldn't like being complimented for his skill in what he had always known was his life's passion?

When he was younger and his parents had been alive, Kurt could dream worlds with but a thought, in the briefest of moments. He was a musician or a painter or a writer or a singer, and he was magnificent, with an audience that was steadfast and adoring. _"That was wonderful, Kurt!" "You have quite a talent!" "Bravissimo! Beautiful!" _And he never doubted himself or that he had a gift, not for one second_. _He never had any reason to. At the time, life was young art and praise and love and fairy tales.

But since then, he'd grown up. He had lost both parents—his mother at six, his father at fifteen—and he had seen that the worlds he once dreamed could not hope to overcome the world he had been fated to, no matter how hard he wished it.

Some time after he had been orphaned, he was sent to the Conservatoire de Paris, as had been his dearest dream and his parents' most express wish, which was known to Kurt's grandmere, who had taken him in when he had nowhere else to go. For four years he studied music, exploring the things he could do with his voice, the ranges he could reach and the songs he could imitate. He was an oddity, however, and his abilities were never fully expounded or appreciated. Nevertheless, Kurt was soon offered a place in the chorus at the Palais Garnier, the Opéra de Paris, where his school friend, little Rachel, had followed and where he began to receive secret, extended singing lessons that touched on more than just technique.

Closing the door, Kurt looked around his dressing room and wondered if his tutor would come that night, if he would offer him congratulations or critique him on his performance. He hoped the voice would visit. Kurt never felt so alive as when he heard his Angel sing. Just one perfect note and his heart would race, making him very aware of his body and all of its pulse points, the sound entering through his ears and exiting out his pores, causing him to _feel _like he never had before, leaving him breathless so that all he could do was shiver from sensation. He didn't understand it—didn't think he ever would understand it—but, god save him, he wanted it; he positively craved it.

A knock on the door alerted him to a visitor.

"Come in," Kurt called breathily as he sat at his vanity, removing the his costume's coat and draping it over the back of his chair, as he suddenly felt overheated. A result of all the stage lights, surely.

Shaking himself of his thoughts, he looked to the door of his room as it opened, curious as to who his visitor might be, and was met with a face he never thought he'd see again.

Kurt's eyes widened, his cheeks coloring with memory. "Sebastian?" he said disbelievingly. "Wha—?" He was at a loss for words.

The tall man grinned at him, green eyes gleaming in the wan light, obviously pleased with the reaction he'd garnered. "Little Lotte," he said lowly in greeting, shutting the door behind him and stopping to stare for a moment. "My god, you're as beautiful as ever," he muttered. He walked towards Kurt and stood before him, leaning his hip lightly against the vanity and extending his arm towards the singer, a single red rose held in his hand. "For you, my songbird."

"How many times do I have to tell you never to call me that before the message gets through that thick skull of yours?" Kurt said in reply, though with no real bite to his words. He smiled softly at the man and reached out to accept the rose, inhaling the scent of the petals before placing the flower on the table. "This is beautiful, thank you."

"You're welcome, Lotte," Sebastian replied. "And what's wrong with calling you my songbird? That's what you are, aren't you?"

Kurt felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck. He shifted his eyes around the room. "That's what I _was_," he said carefully. "Not anymore. Not for a long time now."

Sebastian lifted his hand and gently stroked the backs of his fingers along Kurt's cheek, an old practiced gesture. The singer stiffened and pulled his face away as gracefully as he could, not wanting to insult the other man or wound his pride. He may no longer belong to Sebastian, but it was true that they had meant something to each other once.

The taller man's gaze tightened around the edges, but he took back his hand without comment. "Remember when we met?" he asked instead. "Along the German coast of the North Sea? Your father was there, trying to get you to play your violin."

Kurt was surprised by Sebastian's nostalgia but smiled at the memory nonetheless. It was one of his better ones. His father had been so healthy that year, if not a little happier, the pain of his wife's death not as sharp as it had been the years previous.

"How could I forget?" Kurt said wistfully. "My favorite red scarf was blown into the sea. I'd thought I'd surely lost it forever, but then there you were, running stupidly out into the freezing water just so you could get it back. It was the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me."

Sebastian huffed in mock indignation. "What, more romantic than this rose?" He nudged the stem with a finger. "More romantic than that picnic along the Seine? Or that trip to Lyon? If I recall, you were quite eager to express your, er, _gratitude_ for those gestures."

The smile that had been on Kurt's face slowly disappeared, and he was reminded of why he was no longer Sebastian's songbird. "Yes, it was more romantic than all those" he said plainly, lifting his chin. "Because it was the only time I'd ever seen you behave selflessly, doing something for me without expecting anything in return."

Sebastian frowned at that, looking suddenly less at ease. However, he did not deny Kurt's statement.

Silence hung heavy between them, but Kurt would not break it. He had been done making any efforts with Sebastian years ago. Besides, he belonged to someone else now, if that someone would have him.

After a lengthy pause in which Kurt offered nothing, Sebastian straightened his posture and cleared his throat a little before leaning over to give a kiss to each of Kurt's cheeks. "It was lovely seeing you, little Lotte," he said as he moved toward the door, something Kurt couldn't name coloring his voice. "I hope we will have many more encounters before the season is up and I have to return to London." Another pause. "Maybe I'll even work on my romanticism."

Sebastian gave a wink that was more lecherous than it was charming, and then he was gone from the room.

Kurt stared at the shut door for a time, wondering at the strange visit. He hadn't seen that man in years, not since his father died, and now Kurt was left with an odd feeling in his stomach.

His relationship with Sebastian had always been an unequal one, with Kurt often being treated as the lesser, the more delicate, the simpleton, the damsel. At first, he thought that was merely how Englishmen behaved: haughtily, and with an air of incurable superiority. But eventually he realized that it was just Sebastian. While he was of noble birth, the entitlement (ironically) led to him lacking any true chivalry. He was rude and largely self-involved. The title of "Viscount" lost it's appeal quite quickly for Kurt, and the uninteresting sex just added insult to injury. But he'd truly thought himself in love at the beginning.

"He seems unaccustomed to rejection," a voice spoke from everywhere and nowhere. "An old lover?"

Kurt's eyes darted around searchingly, as they always did when his Angel made his presence known. "Y-yes," he replied. "But I am no longer his."

"Ah," the Angel said. "Because you are mine?"

"Yes," Kurt breathed, he could hear the knowing smile in the phantom's voice. His heart sped up. "I know you're real. I know you're not just a voice or- or a ghost. You have a body, you must have. It wouldn't make sense if you didn't." He suddenly felt bold. "Show yourself," he commanded.

The voice said nothing. Kurt looked around anxiously. His room was as it ever was.

"Show yourself!" he repeated, ignoring the high-pitched desperation in his words. "I'm yours! Come to me, I'm yours!"

Still nothing.

Kurt wanted to sob in frustration. For months he'd had visitations from this Angel of Music, accepting lessons and advice and conversation, and now that he knew the Angel was in fact a _man_, he needed to see him. He needed to meet him and put a face to the voice that he'd grown to crave. "I know you're there," he said, his throat dry. "Behind your walls, I know you're there. Why are you hiding? What are you so afraid of? Are you afraid I'll break if you make yourself known to me? I won't! I've survived more hardship than you know. You won't break me."

"No," the word came from behind him. "But you might break me."

Kurt twirled around, coming face to face with his Angel, who stood but three feet away, in front of the full-length mirror across from the door. He was wearing a black suit with a black bowtie and cummerbund, and a white porcelain mask covered the top half of his face. His dark hair was slicked back with oil, and his wide hazel eyes shone through the mask with warmth and apprehension.

Kurt stared dumbly at him. The man looked much younger than he expected, not much older than Kurt himself, it seemed. And the mask was unexpected, as well. Kurt didn't understand why his Angel would reveal himself only to don a mask and remain partially hidden. This did not help Kurt in the slightest.

"Have courage," Kurt responded barely above a whisper, reining in his frustration in favor of perhaps getting closer to the mysterious man. "I've been waiting for you for… Well, for a very long time. I won't break you."

The man still seemed hesitant, although he start forward, not moving his eyes from Kurt's. "You're the only true… _friend_… I have," he said. "I don't want to ruin this."

Kurt didn't know what to say to that. Was there anything that could be said to that? He'd never heard his Angel's voice sound so small before, and it broke his heart. He was not at all what Kurt had expected. However, that wasn't to say that he was not precisely what Kurt needed.

He took the man's hand once he was close enough. "I'm Kurt," he said, beginning to smile. "Do you have a name? Or must I just call you 'Angel'? Quite frankly, that seems a bit pretentious now."

His Angel laughed quietly, his lips turning up in a small smile to match Kurt's. "I am no angel," he said. "My name is Blaine."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** This chapter is a short one, but I had to end it there, so.

* * *

"_No more memories, no more silent tears, no more gazing across the wasted years. Help me say goodbye."_

- _T__he Phantom of the Opera_, "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again" [video link~ youtu . be/kf94H_kxbR4]

* * *

"Blaine," Kurt repeated, testing the name on his tongue. It felt right leaving his mouth, like no other name ever had. Like it was his to speak whenever he wished, to have the owner of the name respond to his commands as soon as he made them. He was half certain that, if he asked Blaine in that moment to remove his mask, the man would do so with only a moment of hesitation. That inexplicable certainty made Kurt's skin tingle and rush with goosebumps. He would never ask that of him, of course—he wanted Blaine to trust him, not merely obey him. But the knowledge that he could do such a thing was thrilling in a way he had never experienced before.

"That's a lovely name," Kurt continued. "I don't think I've ever met anyone called Blaine before. It's not very French, is it?"

"Neither is Kurt," Blaine countered, the corner of his mouth rising in a smirk. "Or Hummel, for that matter."

"You know very well that I'm not French," Kurt replied, giving the masked man a look that was much more nuanced than seemed appropriate given the young age of their relationship. Kurt resolved not to dwell on it. "What kind of name is Blaine, then? English?"

"Celtic," his tutor responded.

"You don't look very Celtic. I'd more believe you if you said you were from the Mediterranean, or some other such warm place."

"I never said I was Celtic. I said my name is Celtic," Blaine retorted.

Kurt adopted an affronted expression. "Are you sassing me, Monsieur Blaine?" he asked teasingly, his smile pursed and his eyebrow quirked just so.

"Oh, _desolé_, monsieur," Blaine said quickly, glancing down at his shoes before bringing his gaze back up again, straightening his jacket needlessly and then stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I only speak so plainly because I feel as if I've known you all my life." He shrugged a shoulder, looking—dare Kurt think it—utterly adorable.

The hesitant smile on the Blaine's face was the most delicate thing Kurt had ever beheld. As unaccustomed as he knew Viscount Sebastian was to rejection, it seemed as if his Blaine was only all too expectant of it. He wondered what kind of life this young man had lived to leave him in such a state as he was before Kurt.

The boy had so many questions. Why was Blaine haunting the opera house? Where was his family? Were they still alive? What brought him to France in the first place? How come he wore a mask? Kurt was sure there was no need for the thing. In all likelihood, Blaine was probably devastatingly beautiful beneath the false visage, if his eyes and mouth were anything to go by.

"Why does he call you 'Lotte'?"

Kurt's eyes snapped back to Blaine's at the unexpected question. He came to the embarrassing realization that he'd unconsciously been staring at the other's mouth. But Blaine merely tilted his head, seeming to be genuinely curious for Kurt's answer, his shoulders looking much more relaxed than they were a moment before, whatever anxiety he had been feeling at the teasing comment apparently gone.

_What an odd fellow_, Kurt thought. _He flitted about from emotion to emotion as a bee would go from flower to flower._

"Um," he cleared his throat briefly. He could feel the blush starting on his neck, making its way around his ears. "It's, uh, it's from an old story my father used to tell us—Seb and me. A poem."

Kurt looked off to his left, remembering, allowing his thoughts to venture far away from his small dressing room. A poignant smile graced his features. _"'Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing,'"_ he recited._ "'Like a butterfly she flew about in the gold of the sun. In her golden curls she wore the crown of spring, and her gaze was the like the heavens, so bright blue and clear...'"_

He stopped and glanced back at Blaine, swallowing against the lump in his throat. "It's a very sad poem, actually," Kurt said. "Lotte finds an injured bird in the cold of winter and nurses it back to health, but when the time comes in the spring to let the bird free, the girl keeps it caged instead. She doesn't know any better. She's grown to love the little darling, and she doesn't understand that the bird needs its freedom in order to live. It can't thrive in a cage. And so it is that one morning, as Lotte brings some birdseeds to her precious songbird, she finds it dead at the bottom of its cage. It's her first experience of sorrow." Kurt took a slow breath, blinking quite a few times in the space of that breath. "But Father only told that version when he was feeling particularly despondent. In his happier moments, little Lotte _'wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music.'_ That's the version Sebastian remembers, I think. I'm sure that's where he picked up the nickname for me."

"You don't seem like the type to wheedle your mother," Blaine observed. "And nor are you an ignorant little girl. That nickname is ill-suited, I think. You have more in common with the caged bird than with that little Lotte. Does Sebastian know you at all?"

Kurt smiled to himself. He'd always thought the same, in all honesty. Which was, coincidentally, the main reason why he didn't want Sebastian to call him his songbird anymore. He'd escaped that fate and didn't like being reminded of how close he had come to death in a gilded cage.

"He likes to think he does," Kurt responded. "But depth of character was never Sebastian's strong suit."

Blaine hummed in acknowledgment. "He did have part of it right, though," he said.

Kurt gave him a questioning look.

"Like Lotte, you experienced the death of a loved one when you were young and not expecting something so terrible to happen. Only, in your case, you experience it twice over and neither time was it your fault."

Once again, Kurt did not know what to say. He was starting to have trouble breathing. Never in his life had someone paid such close attention to him. He was lost and overwrought and thrilled.

They remained quiet for a minute, doing nothing but staring at each other, taking each other in, thinking.

"You miss him," Blaine eventually spoke softly.

"Sebastian?" Kurt asked, confused. "No, I don't miss Seb. Are you joking? That man was not good for me. I could go the rest of my life without seeing his face again, and I would be quite content. More than content, in fact."

"I mean your father," Blaine clarified, looking somewhat amused at the boy's defensiveness. Kurt had a feeling his tutor had been vague on purpose. But then Blaine quickly turned serious once more, and Kurt was unsure he'd seen any amusement on his face at all. "You feel his absence very strongly, don't you?"

The man's eyes held so much in them and yet betrayed so little. They were murky waters, unknowable and growing green around the edges, and Kurt wanted so much to drown in them.

The singer nodded shakily. "Every moment," he said, voice cracking. He could feel tears building, threatening to fall whether he allowed them to or not. And he hated it. He hated feeling weak, hated feeling as if so much of himself and who he was had been defined long ago by the people he'd known and lost. To others, he would never be Kurt Hummel, man of the stage, singer at the Palais Garnier. He would always be little Kurt, that poor orphan boy who had tragically lost his family at a terribly young age, and oh, wasn't that so sad?

True, his father had been his closest friend, his only family for much of his life, and his mother had meant the world to him when he was a child, and he would miss them both dearly. But Kurt was not his absent parents. And though he did indeed feel their loss every second of every day, he refused to be controlled by their deaths. He would not cry over them any longer.

"I feel it every moment," he said, swallowing to coat his dry throat. "Six years, and I am aware that he's gone _every moment_. And my mother..." Kurt shook his head, eyes and thoughts and sadness clearing. "But I'm trying – I'm learning to say goodbye."

Blaine watched his face, greedy for every movement. Kurt vaguely realized that Blaine had never let go of his hand since Kurt had introduced himself. The singer gripped tighter.

"Help me say goodbye?"


End file.
